Sangria
by Revanche
Summary: In which Abby tries to help and makes a mistake.


Title: Sangria   
Author: Revanche   
Disclaimer: Navy NCIS is owned by CBS, or at least TPTB.   
Rating: R, for f/f sex.   
Feedback: Yes, please.   
Notes: This is un-beta'd, thus any errors are entirely my fault. 

In which Abby tries to help and makes a mistake.

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She looks up from the computer and sees that Kate's still there, back to her. The bones of her shoulders are sharp and distinct through the thin weave of her blouse and she shakes once, twice. Something's wrong, but Abby's missed it, and she's glad. She doesn't want to get involved.

But Kate doesn't leave, and Abby can't help but ask. "You okay?"

"Fine," she says, but she doesn't leave, and Abby sighs, stands, touches her shoulder and turns her around.

"What happened?" She wishes she'd paid attention; Gibbs was lecturing, but until now she'd assumed his words were directed at Tony. Which isn't an illogical assumption, she tells herself. But she doubts, anyway, that this is Gibbs' fault.

"Men can be real jerks sometimes," Kate says, her words giving life to the cliche. Not hatred, but disgust. Despair. What'd she miss?

"Yeah," she says, and she's not sure what else she's supposed to do. She likes Kate, and they're acquaintances, but not really friends. They exchange greetings but not secrets; they don't have enough in common to laugh about anything more than work and sex. Gender.

Her crucifix sparkles in the bright laboratory light and Abby imagines her own chains, heavy and complex, as she reaches out to touch the metal, warmed by the woman's body, its proximity to her heart.

Kate's eyes widen, darken, and Abby realizes what she's doing. Lets the crucifix slide from her fingers, takes a step back. "Sorry. I'm attracted to shiny things." Laughs at her compulsion.

Kate's laugh is low, raw, and Abby smiles, turns away. They're done here; she's played her part and now Kate can leave, go home and do . . . whatever she does. Curl up with a glass of wine and a thick book, or maybe something trendy and feminist. She can see her doing either, and enjoying it.

She's a step away, her hands itching for the cool plastic of the mouse and keyboard, the blinking cursor and code, and then hands are on her shoulders, strong and turning her around, and her mouth was already open, lips moist, and Kate was warm, tasted like, yes, expensive desire and promises, like lipstick a shade too dark to be natural, like lies.

And sorrow.

And she wonders again why Kate is here, why she stayed behind, what happened. What words were spoken.

And how long it's been.

Later, though not much, they walk together into rose light, sunset. A plane in the distance, leaving a white line across the metallic orange sky. Her skin tightens in expectation and Kate keeps a careful distance, like she's afraid she'll combust if they touch now. Again. Before.

Miles later and they're in her apartment, Kate sliding out of her shoes, and not looking at her surroundings, at Abby's home. Like it'll remind her of something, convince her of something, and Abby's not sure whether she wants that or if she cares. They're nothing alike -- Kate's probably never heard of Skinny Puppy, which is a really desperate example, and it's not even relevant, because this isn't going to last.

And then her own shirt flutters to the floor and the cold air caresses her skin, and Kate's melting against her, sweet and rough, and night is falling, slowly, and she doesn't notice. Kate's hands, tracing the outlines of her tattoos, all of them, flesh on ink on flesh, and her own, caressing soft skin, the curves where muscle tapers into bone. Fingernails leaving crescents on white, on tan, and the unexpected strength of Kate's legs as Abby kisses her hard enough to smear lipstick and to bruise. Graceful, sliding down the length of her body, and dark, dark heat.

Kate's gone when Abby awakens, and she's not surprised. She slides out of bed, reaches for her robe and pretends not to notice that it's been knocked to the floor. She walks out of her bedroom, half-expecting to see her on the couch or in the kitchen, and of course she doesn't.

She nods, pours herself coffee, pulls her robe more tightly around her so she can watch the sunrise without flashing the neighbors. And acknowledges that it's not going to happen again, that it was a mistake. Acknowledges and moves on, and when she goes to get dressed, she looks in the mirror and her smile's a little bit slower, a little less steady than it should be, and she tries not to think about it.

It's only the end of a world.

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The End


End file.
